The Village, 421 Green Lanes, N4 1EY

The Dining Club convenes in the Old Ale Emporium, which turns out to be a bog-standard boozer with mass-produced lagers dominating the taps, as opposed to the cathedral of hops, beards, tankards and sandals worn over socks that the name suggests. A bitter disappointment to be honest (bitter – geddit?), although one somewhat alleviated by the ‘77 punk singles blasting out of the jukebox on heavy rotation for no apparent reason. After a couple of bland, generic lagers we head up the road to The Village for Bulgarian food.

Unfortunately, we didn’t feel it necessary to book, as a cursory bit of research made it clear this was more of a café than a restaurant. And the place is full. Two intimidating gentlemen in shell suits, dark glasses and a few items of bling sit in the corner, nursing a half empty glass of coke between them, beneath a big screen broadcasting near pornographic, presumably Bulgarian, R&B videos that blend into a relentless phantasmagoria of accurately groomed facial hair, gold rings, pouts, pimp cups and grinding hot pant-clad buttocks. The extremely friendly chap behind the counter makes an unsolicited approach to these two Sopranos extras on our behalf to vacate their table. They sullenly look up at him, and then us, before we quickly back out muttering apologetically that we’ll come back in another half an hour or so when it’s “less busy”.

A short while later, we’re back and there is plenty of space. If I was being patronising (and I clearly am) I would say the menu had naïve charm. Certain items in the standard café section have an intrigue all of their own (“toast Hawaii”, anyone?) but we’re on Dining Club business, so it’s strictly Bulgarian all the way, starting with the beer. There are two varieties of Bulgarian beer on offer and both come in large 500ml cans. I can’t remember how I arrived at my decision to opt for one rather than the other, but it was a perfectly good lager and around 3 quid, I think. If the waitress was impressed by my gung-ho swagger in ordering the tripe starter, she hid it well. The plate of offal itself couldn’t be accused of dishonesty. It consisted of part of a boiled cow’s stomach cut up into small squares and each mouthful - salty sweet and delicious as it was – was followed by a supressed gag in response to the unadorned truth of what I was eating. I resolved to, in future, persist with offal, pursuing it at every available juncture, until I was inured to any such petty squeamishness.

Lucy’s main was an astonishing concoction of chicken in a ratatouille style stew but with the unique (Bulgarian?) addition of a thick layer of molten cheese covering everything. It was actually really very nice, and vastly proportioned; unlike Lucy, who was struggling after making only the most cursory forays into it with her fork. Sarah, Katie and I all went for slight variations on the same theme of grilled meat, fries and salad. This arrived in the form of a homemade beef pattie stuffed with a pungent (paprika-noted?) chilli sauce centre and was really quite wonderful. It was presented on a wooden platter with a pleasant green salad and perfectly acceptable fries. It’s worth noting that when Sarah had earlier been in danger of becoming permanently stranded in an apparently impossible choice between rice and fries with her main, the waitress gallantly stepped in and offered her half and half. We also had two salads on the side - one Russian and one Bulgarian (the latter duly dubbed the "salad mountain"). Yet again, the volume of food on the table was far too much for four and I think it all worked out at around £15 each in the end, including service.

If I lived on Green Lanes, or indeed in Stoke Newington, and this was my local café, I would regularly be found in there enjoying home made, flavourful Bulgarian food at more than reasonable prices in its down to earth but very friendly (Sopranos extras aside) surroundings.

PS This visit took place a while ago – last year in fact. My note taking was woefully inadequate and I failed to jot down many salient details, including the actual names of the dishes we ate, the actual names of the Bulgarian beer etc. I will endeavour to up my game in future.

The "salad mountain"

Meat and two carbs

REVIEW: Tbilisi, London N7

The Dining Club convenes in a pub called the Bailey on a baking hot summer’s evening in North London, and while waiting for the members to assemble I manage to consume two pints of low quality but ice cold Australian lager in quick succession. Due to the extraordinary heat, you understand. I’m joined in preprandial drinks by the others and by the time we get to that evening’s venue proper – the Tbilisi on the Holloway Road - we are all, I think, both enervated by alcohol and made listless by the heat (did I mention it was hot?). This is unfortunate, as what would’ve been ideal is somewhere unpretentious, bright and lively; somewhere we could relax and wake up a bit…

Tbilisi is the first of the restaurants we’ve been to that obviously aspires to “classiness”. It doesn’t quite work, though; although pleasant enough and well within the bounds of taste, the atmosphere within is stifling – there are two or three tables of diners already in place, and the conversation doesn’t seem to rise above a whisper. The service is efficient rather than friendly, and the menu slightly confusing, though easily explained. I know absolutely not a single thing about Georgian food beyond something I’ve read to the effect that it is well-regarded, and combines both Slavic and more Mediterranean elements. We order with keen anticipation, then. First up is a plate of cheese bread (khachapuri), which seems more akin to a stuffed pancake. Not unpleasant, and the cheese is tangy and salty in a good way, reminding me of a Caerphilly. For our starters, all of us opt for borsht, apart from Sarah, who orders the Red Bean Soup, which turns out to be a mistake (more anon). The borsht is unlike the consommé we expected; heartier, thicker and strangely enough lacking much evidence of beetroot. The main ingredient seems to be grated cabbage, although I could be incorrect. All the bowls on the table are furnished with an over-generous garnish of coriander – establishing something of a theme for the evening. The borchst isn’t unpleasant, maybe quite tasty, but not wholly convincing. And far, far too filling for a starter. Sarah’s Red Bean Soup is more problematic, however; she compares it to a tin of kidney beans emptied into a pan and heated up, and then served with the water (oh, and not forgetting the shovelful of coriander). She gamely tries to eat enough not to be insulting to our hosts, but it’s clearly a struggle.

On to the mains. There are two orders of the lamb, one of the chicken and one of the beef, all arriving under a heavy canopy of the ubiquitous coriander. Not having had it explained to us by our waiter that most of these plates include no carbs, we haven’t ordered any – probably a good thing as capacity was nearly reached by the soups alone, and there’s still some bread on the table which will do adequately. My beef and pickles is very good. The meat has been cooked in a rich stew, well spiced and the vinegar of the sliced pickles on top cut through the richness in a quite pleasing manner. The lamb dish seems to have a similar (not quite identifiable to my palate) flavour base, but is blander than my beef, to its detriment. Things unfortunately take a quite disastrous turn with the chicken. The menu’s description of spiced chicken in a walnut sauce doesn’t quite prepare one for something that looks and tastes like nothing so much as a tin of Fray Bentos chicken curry emptied on to a plate and put in the microwave. It, at least, is accompanied by something that tastes encouragingly like pap, of which my South African brother-in-law is fond of making at barbecues and of which I in turn have grown fond. Lucy struggles to eat a couple of fork fulls of the curry-in-a-tin and I nobly help finish it (I’ve never actually minded curried chicken in a tin). I should also mention that I ordered a glass of the house Georgian red, which to my admittedly uneducated palate went down very well indeed.

While we reluctantly discussed the idea of desserts (more out of politeness than anything else – I think we were all by that stage keen to get out of Tbilisi’s increasingly stifling atmosphere) we realised that not only our waiter but all of the three or four staff had disappeared. After several awkward minutes of drumming fingers on the table and umming and ahhing about what to do next, I saw someone pottering about near the back exit and went over. He quickly got us the bill (about £20 a head, I think) and we fled once again into the heat of the Holloway night, all of us yet to be convinced of Georgia’s no doubt fine and noble culinary tradition.

Tbilisi

91 Holloway Road, London, N7 8LT
Tel: 020 7607 2536
(no website) 

REVIEW: Czech Club Restaurant Ltd., London NW6

I’ve been aware of this Czech restaurant for a few years now, and it had always intrigued me whenever I walked past it. For starters, it’s a house, and furthermore, a house on a very residential road. It’s hardly the sort of location to draw in much passing trade, and despite the large board outside depicting a jolly chef holding the menu, the idea of strolling in seems a little intimidating - because it so very obviously is a house. In my ignorance, I had it down as some sort of slightly sinister Czech ex-pats private members club, where the intrusion of an ignorant Englishman would be treated with suspicion if not downright hostility. How wrong I was!

Admittedly, when we first arrived, we were milling around in the reception areas (hallway) for five or ten minutes more than was entirely comfortable. However, this was simply down to the fact that the maître d' character was already involved in seemingly complicated negotiations with some arriving Czech customers. When whatever the issue was had been resolved, he breezily ushered us to our table in the front section of the restaurant (front room) and was an embodiment of courteous, discrete hospitality. The slightly shabby 70s décor, complete with imposing portraits of various Czech dignitaries, created a pleasing air of cold war intrigue.

The menu was large and complicated, but made navigable by the helpfully detailed English translations. While deciding what to order, we asked for a round of Budvars, which at £3 a pint jug must be about the cheapest pint going of this excellent lager in London. After we had ordered our starters, I asked the waiter his advice on the main, letting him know that I was thinking about the wild boar. He enthusiastically endorsed my choice, before disappearing to replenish our drinks. My starter was also porcine in nature. Described as simply “brawn” in the menu, it was a vastly proportioned terrine of what I assume was boiled and baked pig cheek, accompanied by a small garnish of green leaf and pickles. It was excellent; a robust mixture of coarse and smooth artery hardening textures, with a smoky, honest earthiness.

My main of roast wild boar and dumplings took the form of two thick, medallions of the animal, neither under or over-cooked, and covered in a heavy layer of a rich white sauce. Czech dumplings look like slices of undercooked French bread, but in fact a more accurate comparison would be to Chinese steamed buns or bagels; doughy and yielding, and a delicious if heavy mop with which to soak up the liquid on the plate. The others where all happy with their choices too: two goulash and one chicken schnitzel-type affair. The repeat orders of Budvar, combined with the vastly proportioned dishes had resulted in all of us feeling like force-fed geese (also available on the menu), but in a good way. Overcoming the fear that any sudden movement would result in a burst at the seams, we just about made it through to the bar (the dining room?) for one more drink; the regulars looked like they were just warming up for the evening.

I can’t remember how much we paid (I must start keeping the receipts) but I am sure that we all felt it was really very good value and very good food. Never having set foot on Czech soil, I can’t vouch for its authenticity. All I can say is that I hope that if I ever do go to the Czech Republic I will be fed equally well.

Czech Club Restaurant Ltd.

74 West End Lane
West Hampstead
London NW6 2LX
Tel: 0207 372 1193